My spirit was swung low like a string hammock so I lay with it, sunken under the hottest star to meld or fuse what it could. I opened my eyes to the sure, steady mind of a Red Kite, cutting through finger-smudged clouds and all uncertainty - an ever-winning coin. Under the relentless energy of the Sun And the set red bend of bone and feather, one strand pulled taut, alert again. I thought of poetry; the beautiful things forever flying fierce: star stripes, bronze birds, truth - all these strong lines in the sky are under my blood; my tired self is still singing. LJ Ireton, 2024
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